Poetry

In Soweto today, two black men, one in the rulers' blue, one in civilian drab—ankle-length britches, a shirt whose once-distinct stripe has faded— faced one another. Each believed the other would take what the believer had—his power, his life— and believed that he, in that instant of history, embodied the force of history. I do…

I love the gold haloes of the saints in Giotto's frescoes of the legend of St. Francis. I love the plainness of the story, plain as the Saint's brown habit. In the Basilica at Assisi, lying on my back with my binoculars, my feet on my guidebook, I trace the tale in fragments. He is…

There is a store, it is an individual, like you, me, a body, corporate, you or I might go into this store and see racks of empty cardboard boxes covered with a picture and with words on the back with the typeface neutral and readable while the title on the front reaches out by some…

Toy tractor under the house, empty clock Plumbing that howls like the sea Within the walls, And the walls dirty-white where the cat rubbed And the child of splashed milk Giggled over a finger game. Sister roaring places. Wet truck. Sky making room for clouds, that black threat Over the grocery, something For Mr. Bandini…

Only seem to be there when you look for them At first, almost a secret, except for a tiny spring Or needle's point that peeks out from behind What it's supposed to prop up —Or keep back; but these silver snow fences, Once you've located one, The bands and wires are suddenly everywhere, Tensed, unyielding,…

It was on your father's work bench In the barn that you undid Your skirt: hair, kinked hair Thick as a child's black scribbling, Pink when you breathed And opened. You watched Me watch you. The barn ticked. Pigeons shifted in the rafters, Their wings like prayers as we made Hurt noises and blood cried…

If you feel around with your fingers       there is a corner to every sin       Upon finding that tight spot       one must remember what to do       Listen            I have been out setting this trap       Cabbage is cheap            Nobody has seen me       if I eat right       I'll grow…

The earth already knows too much About us. We dig holes And throw ourselves in, Weep, set stones Where no stone would sleep. The mountains, blue yoke in the distance, Are coming down— Rock, bush, slaughtered tree. The sea is washing salt from the bodies Over and over, and without rest. I tell my daughter,…

Small operas, the seedy merchants at the blurred ends of fuming streets in the immigrant photographs, insist on it. What are you supposed to do with desire in America where your heart is so many poor shops? He takes a girl to the Catskills on a bus. Her dull kerchief and the black hairs wire…